


The Mirrors

by Mila_Addwang



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Harry Styles, Hurt/Comfort, Larry Soul Mate Exchange, Larry Stylinson Is Real, Love, M/M, Romance, Soulmates, Soulmates Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2020-10-20 01:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20667047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mila_Addwang/pseuds/Mila_Addwang
Summary: A world where couples can see each other in the reflection of mirrors.Louis 4 years thinks that Harry is dead until he decides to find his tombstone.And Harry's face is distorted by the scar from the accident, so he's been avoiding mirrors for 4 years.Link of the original text: https://ficbook.net/readfic/3619588





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Зеркала](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/520529) by Djisa. 

As usual, there is moderate chaos on my desk. Book, textbook, scribbled sheets overlap in uneven stacks. A bit of the chilly air is pulled into the slit of the slightly open window. Forcing my skin cover with goosebumps under the thin cotton cloth.

This morning is wet. And grey. Not light at all immerses city streets in shaded colors.

And I hold in my hand an envelope of the impressive dimensions. I'm mesmerized staring at the name of the recipient. At my name. And I think about whether I'm very want to read the answer to my question. Am I ready?

A little more than two weeks ago, I turned to my friend (more specifically: through him to his father, who works in a detective agency and is engaged in the search for missing people), deciding, finally. Meet face-to-face with my sad reality.

The Creator created each creature in our world in pairs. He gave every imperfection the person who's improving him into perfection. The man. The pair. Soul mate. But even in this seemingly perfect world, not everyone is lucky. I was unlucky. I don't have a soul mate.

People think "just not yet". After all, I'm young. Only a year ago I stopped using the suffix "teen". People say "all in good time". You just have to wait a little more. That's what they tell me over and over again and I don't argue. I don't explain anything. I don't tell them my soul mate just doesn't exist. Doesn't exist anymore. He died.

You know, it happens.

Each of those who have already found a pair can see this person in the mirror. Of course, if you half is also next to one of the mirrors at this moment. And let it be impossible to hear each other through the looking-glass world, but simply admire each other, exchange gestures and words inscribed on paper is enough.

The most common impression (no matter how ridiculous it may sound): the first time is always the most unexpected. And a little scary. Probably, so is in everything. The heart skips a couple of beats when the picture is distorted and you see in the reflection of someone else's unfamiliar face. Or a figure. Sometimes an ass, it's different for everyone. But it always happens suddenly, unscheduled. Forcing the body to twitch, pulling away from the previously mirrored surface.

My first time was no less frightening. Even more than. My first sight on the other side of the reflection turned into the last one.

When it happened, I was almost seventeen. Everything happened on the eve of Christmas vacation. I was going to drive the ball across the frozen field with my friends. There's freezing outside, English wet winter has turned into unexpected ice. The thermometer dropped below zero. And from the sky flew snowflakes.

I was putting on lenses in front of the mirror in my room. The picture before my eyes flowed giving way to the unfamiliar salon of the car. In the back seat was a handsome curly-haired boy not much younger than me and I was looking at him from the rearview mirror, which is obvious. While the owner of a curly disorder sat, having buried in the book opened on his knees. From which he didn't look away, even when I waved to him and knocked on the mirror surface. Which wasn't surprising. He couldn't hear me. So all I had to do was waiting for that adorable kid to stop biting his lower crimson lip and look up at me. Waiting, almost choking on the chaotic spasms engulfed my lungs trapped under my ribs.

But he never raised his face. Because after a series of motionless moments, the picture jerked sharply to the side, turned over several times, mixing its content in together. Burst. At first, the large strip across allowing me to see the small pieces that shattered the windshield. And then it vanished into dust, erasing someone else's reality, leaving me alone with my reflection. Pale and terrified, not to death, but death itself. Leaving me to breathe the air hungrily and sharply with a small sense of hope. With the sense of hope that the picture will be reflected again. I'm waiting until late in the evening. In the evening, the news reported a major accident between Manchester and Bolton. And in one of the photos, I learned curly miracle, which was to see on the other side of the mirror until the end of life and not once in the news feed of those killed in an accident on the icy road.

I found this curly-haired Harry Styles on all social media, but his accounts remained frozen. Forever. I gathered his photos from the pages of all his friends. To keep at least color pictures in memory.

Right now, I'm going to open a sealed envelope so after four years, I can find the strength and courage to face at least a cold headstone. Naughty fingers tremble when I tear the paper.

These four years have been a real hell. Under the heading of privacy. Which I installed myself. Under pressure of fear, despair, weakness. They made no sense. At first, I tried to accept, to experience this awareness alone. And not being able to voice my confession out loud, share it with someone close to me. The benefit of all my strange behavior: easy detachment from the world, nervous breakdown, stealth – blamed on age-related features. I was always a complicated kid, then a complicated teenager with a pronounced, specific, a little quick to the temper. So my strangeness didn't surprise anyone. Except that my mom kept picking up on my mood swings. And she was anxious to talk to me. But even with her, I was able to smooth things over. I grew up a real pretender. Four years of indifferent honing skills. And all the cards were in my hand: half the people my age didn't yet have a pair. I was for others still green and immature bud. Even though I was more of a barren flower.

The last year has finally given me stability. Storm in the soul gradually subsided and aren't longer raged, by giving me a fragile peace, leaving behind, perhaps, a lifetime of sadness. I have the whole year I thought and thought about I want to see him. For myself. To talk through an indifferent cold stone and maybe say goodbye right away. Get rid of the sad craving. And carry the rest forward. Move forward. I thought about it and couldn't stop myself.

That's why I'm holding a torn envelope. As the last tribute to my love that never began.

Eyes are slowly running over the lines on the first sheet. There's a brief message from my friend's father. Thanking me for the remuneration and very briefly informing me of the work done by the division. The following sheet contains information about the burial of the Styles family members who died in the accident four years ago. A man, the 1957th year of birth and a woman, younger than him by ten years are certainty parents. A girl is a sister. All three are buried in East Cheshire. I have I long way to go.

I'm looking for Harry's name, but I can't find it. Probably, it's the last one on that list, printed on the next sheet, so I quickly take away the page I've read to the end and open the last page. But for one name on it, there's too much text. I read the absurd and incoherent text for a long time. Because this page is too different from the previous one, though it shouldn't. This is an extract from a health-improving boarding house, located eight time zones from me, in the suburbs of Los Angeles. The paper, which blatantly lies to me, hypocritically laughs at me, informing me that a man named Harry Styles is there for a three-year course of recovery, after a year of being in a serious, immobile condition.

It's turning my life upside down and me at the same time.

There's no photo anywhere. But the date of birth is identical to the one that was listed on Harry's social pages. My heart hesitates, waiting for the brain to kick in. But my brain decided to self-destruct. I'm just looked at the printed text. Until in my eyes start to ripple.

Harry is alive.

My insides. Every organ in my body. My lips. Repeat this over and over again. And after four years of hope, disappointment, longing, and humility, this thought sounds delusional-fictional. As if someone decided to write on my life sweet-syrup parody story without my consent.

Sheet in hand surprisingly isn't shaking. The body successfully resists weakness. I just put the papers aside, moving to the bed and fall on my back. I fixed my gaze on the wood-covered ceiling.

I haven't seen Harry through the looking glass in four years. Am I so desperate to look in the reflection and wait that I missed these important moments? Impossible.

Thoughts flow into me, immobilizing my entire body. Bring my mind to the brink of indiscriminate chaos. My long emotionally exhausting trip to the cemetery was to turn into an eleven-hour flight to the New World.

***

Two days I spent on moral training and the collection of necessary documents for obtaining a visa for three months, the hotel room reservation and search for more information about a health-improving boarding house in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Three more days I expect the registration of emergency visas for entry into the United States. At the end of the fifth day late in the evening, I book tickets for a direct night flight London-Los Angeles.

My mother, upon learning the brief news that perhaps my couple was in the United States, initially wanted to go with me. This is such an important moment in my life! But I didn't even have to talk her out of it, life did it for me. Because to leave my sisters without supervision and guardianship for an indefinite period was impossible.

At night, after buying tickets, I cannot sleep and the day passes in nervous anticipation. I pass out only the next evening, already sitting in a completely uncomfortable chair in the airplane's cabin. And all my long flight of eleven hours and twenty minutes passes almost imperceptibly. Only my neck hurts when I open my eyes, feeling the stewardess's hand checking the condition of my seat belt.

Landing is completed successfully, at passport control somewhat crowded because of two or three flights arriving at the same time. From the airport, I book a taxi to my hotel. And before I continue my journey, I stay in my room to freshen up, take a shower and change into clean clothes and then I've breakfast in the café across the street.

The excitement returns with renewed vigor, wanting to take over my body again when I finally feel full after the last sip of coffee. And it makes me regret having such a hearty breakfast. Because I feel dizzy. Two more hours and after four years of silent sorrow, I might see my curly miracle? I try not to get my hopes up. As a precaution, to then not die from frustration. But hope still lives in my heart, no matter how hard I try to get rid of it.

I'm scared, I'm trembling. I'm continuing to draw sketches in my head, continually replacing in my imagination of the scenery of our lovely meeting. I'm getting more and more animated as I scroll through the memory of that moment from the car. The only one, I could catch in our history. In it, I see, as find Harry somewhere on a bench, in a small garden square. And he's busy reading the book again, so he doesn't notice my presence at first. And only after I call his name in a muffled, strangled voice, does he finally look up at me, shuddering in his shoulders. He's a little embarrassing and confused. And then I'm probably lying at his feet. Then, perhaps, there'll something quite incoherent and illegible. Further only of touching, of touching and of touching.

The lower abdomen is shaking from these thoughts. The fingers continued to methodically compress-decompress carpal expander in hand. While the taxi takes me to the given address, shortening and shortening the distance between me and Harry Styles.

Winter in LA is not the same as in London. It's warm and inspiring. A temperature here rarely falls for zero. Constantly fluctuates from ten to twenty. The air is dry and light. No pressure dampness on the chest.

The car pulls up to the boarding house just before the start of visiting hours. At the checkpoint, I just show my documents and get a temporary pass for today. The girl in the light uniform who meets me at the entrance to the building politely asks how she can help me.

\- I would like to visit my close friend. – I answer, handing the girl a statement that Harry is in this institution for treatment. She scans the paper with a cursory glance and raises her eyebrows in surprise.

\- Mr. Styles doesn't get many visitors this time of year.

\- We haven't seen for several years. – it seems as if I almost not lying. – It's my first time here.

The employee purses her lips.

\- Don't you mind if I ask Harry's consent for your meeting? – it's a more rhetorical question, then demands from me any answer. – How can I introduce you?

My mouth is dry. Instantly. I blink slowly. Long, a bit bewildered and she notices this.

\- I... don't need. I'll introduce myself if necessary.

She just shrugs and asks me to wait in one of the chairs while she warns Mr. Styles of an unscheduled visit. She's coming back really fast. Generates among my innards awe, which she immediately kills, telling me, shaking her head:

\- Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find Harry in his room. But you can wait for his return. Most likely, he decided to get some air. And I... I have to get back to work.

\- Yeah... - I answer, running a glance at the front door. – Is it possible for me too? – I'm pointing towards the exit. – I'll take a walk around here.

Of course, I get an affirmative answer.

\- I only ask you, if you meet Harry, don't scare him off.

\- Oh... yeah-yeah.

I'm walking with measured steps to the area around. I'm practically forcing myself to keep a steady pace, so as not to look like a jerky, hasty jerk. I count down to myself second by second. I'm thinking of the scenario in my head. When I finally turn into the backyard, the surrounding, it seems, service entrance, I notice in the distance figure. I see a curly-haired guy fascinated by his reading, he bent over a book that is open in his lap. Curls gently fall on his temples.

I can barely see his face from afar. But my heart is certain and insists that it's Harry. My gaze slides lower. And bumps into a chair. A wheelchair. And the gust of air that was about to pull his name out of me, got stuck in my throat. Ideal images break, crack, exposing hidden under a reality. Even though I read the discharge, there was a mention about it. I'm standing with words stuck in my mouth. And I look at the curly-haired boy. At his legs, which are neatly standing on a special ledge. Motionless. And I'm trying to deal with the nerve endings in my body.

He cannot see me. He doesn't even know who I am, that I'm here, looking at him. He continues to enthusiastically read his book, turns the page. Until then, until my leg finally moves towards, shuffling on the pavement and not dragged the other leg. His shoulders shudder. And he barely lifts the face, looking at me askance.

But I'm going along. Toward him. And I'm drowning in deafening steps. The guy completely turns his face to me when there're ten meters between us and my legs, literally, grow into the ground.

\- Are you lost? Here the entrance is strictly for the staff. – he says it a little hoarsely and viscous. Insinuatingly. And I would still that not to hear. I cannot filter and realize even such a simple combination of words. I'm just looking at his face. At the bitterness from my enthusiastic fantasies. All I feel is a cold, freezing in my stomach.

A deep, uneven scar runs from the left eyebrow through the eye down the cheek to the corner of the lips. Another small one goes around his left eye on the other side, at the bridge of his nose. And on all this background, the most inconspicuous, the last is distort the line of the lower lip about the center. And that's just a face.

The next scar outlines the neck diagonally and disappears behind the collar of the sweatshirt. Perhaps, beneath it lays a scattering of crowning an ugly pattern all over the body. The last thing I see before my trance is interrupted by a stray wheeze is the crumpled upper tip of the right ear as the guy tucks back the curls that fell forward and says:

\- I'm sorry... There's no entrance. – He repeats. And his eyes flickered over my face for another second. He's noting my shock trance. Then the eyes across from me die away and Harry drops his face down. Harry, right?

\- Sorry, I didn't... didn't know... - I mumbled almost inaudible. Because inside me is an immiscible mixture of heat and cold. Ice is boiling in my veins. – I... - I didn't finish and my eyes are still focused on his partially hidden face. At that time, as the whole pose of the guy across says only one thing: "don't look at me like that". Pose is closed, tense, and ready to defend if necessary.

\- First time here... - I say. I'm still on the line between wanting and not wanting to wake up. – Are you Harry?

\- How do you know my name? – cautiously asked the guy, glancing at me with one eye from under fallen forward long strands of hair, slowly closing his book. A little rough.

\- I probably I'm actually lost. – I move my tongue, straining the vocal cords with the last effort, forcing them to produce the sounds need.

\- Entrance from the other side. – says Harry, putting his hands on the wheels he abruptly pushes his wheelchair forward to the side. – Go away!

Wheels slightly creak, accompanying his movement. Replace hasty steps. And I look after him, but my imagination draws me a moment in which he turns around. Only tenderness and ease in this image is no more. No ideality at all. Harry's face is disfigured by an ugly lumpy scar.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm lying, the light from the night lamp reflects in my eyes. I'm trying practically not to breathe. To not spend the oxygen. Humanity needs it more than me.

My eyes don't look at the ceiling. They look further. Through it, in-depth hidden behind the white paint, covering the cold stone. In this depth, the colored pictures are broken against each other. Teen delicate facial features stretch, replaced by more adults. Curved and greased from the left eyebrow to the lips. Distorted by an ugly bulging shape. I can see him through the rearview mirror again. Only this time he sees me looks at me over and over again. So sad and distant. A little hostile. Harry probably doesn't like people staring at his face like that. I suppose that makes him feel paltry. Makes him forget that in another alternative scenario, he might just be dead.

I think, think, think, and think about, what now? How now? And after a few hours of tedious thinking, I realize how stupid it was just to leave. With the other hands, explaining with Harry, too, seems than something impossible. Wrong. Even the fact that he is alive and that I saw him with my own eyes today, seems unreal to me. Still.

Wait, until he, finally, looks in a mirror – immediately there's no. Senselessly. He hasn't done it in four years. And he won't do. But I can convince him to do it, right? Carefully. Convince him.

Inside scraping some inadequate feeling. The reaction's a little slow. Has no logical explanation. Unless I'm still not fully aware of the reality of what's happening. And my body is in some natural tone "by default". It won't let me get emotional until I'm ready for it. And I'm not ready for it yet.

I raise my hand again and bring it to my face so that for the sixty-seventh time today I can read the contents of the flyer I picked up on my way out of the boarding house. The whole point rests on one simple truth: they need volunteers, without experience, ready to devote the next semester to the program to help sick people. And this flyer literally fell on my leg and whispering the right answer for the last three hours.

All I have to do is sort out my studies in London and then submit a completed application to the human resources department. I know I'm definitely going to do it.

***

When my mother asks me how my trip went, I answer indistinctly, because there's nothing to say. Although maybe she understands everything when I tell her that I'm going to participate in a program to help a medical institution for people with disabilities. But she doesn't say anything. Only that I'm a grow-boy and that's my grow-up decision. She knows that change is coming behind this decision. Even bigger than they've already been.

A little longer than a week the issue of my one-year break at the University is being resolved. And then I have to go through the moral preparation for what I'm going to live in a completely different country, on a different continent, away from family and friends, all the people I knew. More precisely, I have to conduct this moral training for my mother. I, in turn, do it indirectly.

According to the volunteer program, which I signed up for, I am provided with accommodation in one of the buildings equipped for employees, food and one day off per week. My duties will be quite various. Mostly work based on physical labor. Someone has to keep the wards clean, adjust the equipment, provide simple care to patients at their request or the direction of their doctor. In early spring, most of my work will be directed to the improvement of the territory of the boarding house. But I don't care. The first thing I need to know is exactly where Harry's room is, how his treatment is going and where I can see him again. That's what I'm trying to find out when I come here.

The girl who met me on my first visit recognize me at once. And we get acquainted. Her name is Carol and she's twenty-five and she has a mandatory internship at the boarding house. It's from her I learn all the information I need to start. I'm sure she's far from talkative, but she obviously knows why I'm here. And she only asks about it, to make sure:

\- Is it because of Harry?

So, I manage to find out that Harry's room is on the first floor of the main building. And on the second floor is his therapy, he spent almost a year trying to get himself to walk a little. The details of his diagnosis Carol doesn't know, such information has his doctor. And she works under the direction of another doctor. In the summer until mid-October Harry was visited by his cousin and his bio aunt, who pays for his treatment, being his guardian. In winter and early spring, the woman was busy with seasonal work and right now is outside the country and his cousin's studying in Europe, so that also appears here isn't often. And yes, as I began to suspect, he has a residual psychological trauma, partly resulting in panic fear of mirrors.

Finally, the moment of our meeting comes. When I knock a little impatiently on the door of the room I quickly open it and carry the bucket and mop inside. In fact, my hands are already tired after the first day, because I had to wash the floor on the entire floor of this wing. But to get into this cherished room, I was even ready to redecorate the parquet here. Harry's unintelligible and surprised voice greets me as he tries to understand what's going on.

His room is dark and a little stuffy. The curtains were drawn. And the only source of sound is the TV on the wall, which goes silent as soon as Harry aims the remote at it.

\- Hi! – I say, trying my best to sound natural. I pass off myself as the noisy idiot from excitement. This is my brain's defensive response. – Did you order a cleaning manager for the house? Here I am!

For the first few moments, curly guy stares at me blankly. Then he quickly lowers his face and runs his hand through his hair, throwing his bangs forward over his eyes.

\- Are you a new one? – I nod. – Did Carol not tell you that my room is usually cleaned on Sundays?

Of course, she did.

\- What? Really? I guess I didn't remember, sorry. – I say as quickly as I can. My speech sounds messy. – I quickly, honestly...

\- Ahem-ahem. – delicately coughs guy.- I don't like when anyone in my room. – he says, hoping I'll have the sense and tact to accept his request and leave the room. I'm smart enough to not to do it.

I bite my lower lip continue my washing-floor activity.

\- Let's just pretend I'm not here!

\- Why is your room so dark? This is lunchtime. – I say, putting down my mop and going to the window to push the blinds aside.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice how Harry is actively gesturing, trying to stop me:

\- Do not! Do not touch! – but plastic strips one after another move aside with characteristic creak.

The rays of the midday sun do not hesitate to burst inside. Glaring light is illuminating all that meets on its way, casting thick shadows in different directions. I turn to look at the object of my potential attention. I find only shocked indignation on his face.

\- Go away! – he commands.

Harry shakes like a wild animal. He's unusual squinting from the bright light. He squirms on the bedspread, annoyed that I have broken into his abode. But I ignore him to the end. I'm feeling on myself unhappy and full of indignation glance. I leave with a hurried farewell. And my lips stretch into a smile. An emotional start is the best start.

***

I find Harry on the same day after my shift in the evening, right where I first met him. His chair rolls slowly across the asphalt when I peer into the aperture, opening service door.

\- Hey, Harry. – I say giving him a little greeting that forces him to turn around and meet my eyes. He frowns a little but stops as I get closer.

\- What?

\- I'm sorry about this morning I didn't mean to piss you off. – I say squatting in front of the wheelchair. I hand him the book I brought with me from London. – Here, my apologies.

Long Harry's fingers slowly delineated the bind of the book. He reads the title aloud:

\- "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" – he says. – Is it yours?

\- Not really. – I grin back. – To be honest, I have no idea what this book is. It's my sister's.

Harry's lips emit a light chuckle. His fingers circle the cover.

\- You haven't seen the movie? – he asks and I shake my head. – I've read it before, but... that was a long time ago, so I'll read it again. Thank you. – and his lips give a quite easy, almost imperceptible smile. And somehow I'm sure he's just shy about smiling. He forgot how to do it.

\- Nice.

My fingers clench a little nervously at my knees and I fear that having finished this brief exchange of pleasantries, Harry will drive me away again. But he resumes the conversation.

\- How do you know my name?

\- Name? – I ask, hoping to gain at least a few seconds to come up with a plausible answer. And I did it. – Carol told me. She mentioned it in passing and I just have a good memory... I guessed.

\- That first day? – the guy asks, raising his eyebrows.

\- Yeah. – I nod for emphasis. – Intuition. Am I guessed?

\- You guessed, but I don't know your name. – Harry says, leafing aimlessly through the pages of the book. – and I'm a little embarrassed.

He bites his lower lip and a ghostly hint of charming dimples appears on his cheeks, but their existence has yet to be verified.

\- My name is Louis William, but you can call me Louis. - I say quickly and for some reason I say. – All my friends call me Louis or Lou, but. – I emphasize. – If you want to call me Louis William, I won't mind.

\- Louis. – Harry repeats slowly, chewing my name in his deep voice.

\- Let's be friends? – I ask, holding out my hand.

Harry stares at my hand for a few seconds before bursting out with a funny, croaking laugh that he immediately tries to muffle with his hand pressed to his mouth.

\- Just like that? "Let's be friends?" – he chuckles. – Are we in kindergarten?

And I say a usual: - Aha.

I continue to look directly into his eyes, nothing that he has already slightly adapted to my gaze.

\- As I understand: I have no choice. – he sighs a bit unnecessary. – But I guess I'll have to agree. You don't have any friends here, do you? – and I nod at everything he says, indiscriminately. – Well, I can't do that to you! So be it, since you want to be friends with such a freak... - he begins so cheerfully and seemingly very provocatively, but stumbles dramatically, adding crumpled: - on the wheelchair. – and he becomes gloomy. Again.

I get to my feet and walk around his wheelchair, feeling the tension flare up again.

\- Mind taking a walk? – I ask and after his nod, I'm pushing the wheelchair forward the track.

I want more than anything to ask Harry about his health, the physical condition of his body, how his treatment is going. But I know if I do it, he'll only shut me out more. As soon as I cross his moral space. I'm afraid of it, so I keep silence. I don't say anything until Harry is the first to resume out dialogue.

\- You're British, aren't you? You have a very pure English accent.

\- Yeah, you have it too, by the way.

\- Haaaa, Harry crushed emits a chuckle I'm also from England. It's just my aunt thought the climate of LA would be more suitable for me now. Why did you come here?

Because of you. It's obvious.

\- Just... I wanted to help people, to do something good, you know? – I say, and wheels are squeak on the asphalt. – Why else do you think people become a volunteer?

\- I don't know. – Harry says honestly and shrugs. – I never was a volunteer.

Silence again. The guy takes a deep breath, gaining a full chest of fresh air. I'm just driving his wheelchair on and on. And we're both looking at the not-yet-picturesque, unkempt, half-empty flower beds.

\- What about your family? – asked Harry. – Your friends? Your date?

\- I don't have a date. – it seems to be the only question that my brain grabs. And the only one that I want to answer, but I said absolutely not one that should. That I'm surprised by my answer. It's good that Harry can't see my face.

He's reacting to my answer more than calmly. Like everyone. Without further explanation, this answer seems normal to people.

\- Oh, okay, you haven't decided yet. – he says, tilting his head back to look at me. In the next moment, he embarrassed by this natural movement and the natural desire to see the eyes of the interlocutor, when soft curly strands hang down, exposing his face.

I look down on him. I'm noting that Harry had greenish eyes, bright and alive. For split second, I thought about how I'd wanted to see them in the reflection four years ago and all I'd seen was the shattered fragments as the car turned upside down several times, mocking his body. And for the first time, I want to explain. Which I've never done before. Never with anyone. I'm taking a deep breath and I continue:

\- I don't have a date anymore. – I admit, feeling the bitterness on my tongue for the first time. The bitterness that used to have accumulated somewhere inside me. I used to live with it. And these words aren't even associated with the concept of "lie". A part of me still lives in this reality that hasn't let me go. – It happened a few years ago. I saw it... through the mirror.

Harry's eyes widen slightly and his lips twitch. I read regret and embarrassment on his face. The next moment he drops his head back and his hair falls forward again.

\- Oh God, forgive me, please ... - I see his long, thin fingers wrap around the arms of his chair. – I should have thought before you asked...

\- It's okay it was a long time ago. – I say and for some reason, I feel a strange calm detachment with my bitterness. – And... we didn't really know each other. So... you could say I'm just free. – my lips push out something that looks like a chuckle.

Harry doesn't answer me for more than a dozen seconds, pausing. And only then his voice sounds a bit notorious, but exactly:

\- It's sad because you have to be alone.

\- I guess it just means I can choose.

\- Probably, forgive me again.

I turn on the central track, when Harry somewhat sharply slows down our movement, lowering his hands slowly rolling wheels. I stop. And the guy looks around.

\- Your building is here? – he points to a three-story building a little way off.

\- Yes, my room is on the second floor, if you're interested or if you're not interested. – I say and walk around the chair to look into his eyes because it makes me feel more comfortable.

Harry's lips are touched all the same polite smile, only on the corners of his lips.

\- I'm sure you had a rough first day at work, so... I wouldn't mind if you go get some rest.

\- Are you kicking me out? - I raise my eyebrows.

\- What? No, that's just... that's the closest way you can get to your room, really, I'll drive back myself.

\- You're kicking me out. – I say and Harry gives a little laugh.

\- No, I don't, I just want to drive from here myself, can I? Thanks for the book.

I'm tempted to make a quip about cleaning his room tomorrow, but I hold back the urge to spoil the moment. Harry thought that pause was on my part of awkwardness. So he continues.

\- Thank you, really. – he says and turns the wheels on the asphalt. – Have a good rest, Louis William.

\- I'll see you tomorrow. – I say. No, I promise. For both of us. And even though that promise is obvious only for me right now, Harry gives me a parting smile, turning in his chair.

And I can see right at the corner of his mouth. A little adorable sweet dimple that no one, not even the most beautiful person on the planet, has.

The realization overtakes me when the wheelchair disappears. The picture blurs. And the tip of the nose becomes slightly damp from the approaches of emotions. I blink away the light drops that prevent me from seeing anything, I feel them running down from the corners, outlining the cheekbones, meeting at the chin. I sniff.

At this moment, the thought of Harry being alive shines so brightly in my head. That I'm going blind again. It's extraordinarily beautiful.

It's better than the one in which I see his in the mirror surface. It's surprisingly real. It kills me with its reality. As it turned out, my life never attributed the word "the end" to me, it's just that Harry and I had a very long beginning. And it's beautiful. So was Harry's smile.

With the knuckles of my index fingers, I quickly clamp the corners of my eyes, pressing, closing my eyes. I chase away the salty drops.


	3. Chapter 3

\- Hi. – I find Harry on my break and the green apple landed on his lap. – How are you?

Harry smiles faintly, without a dimple, but no less wonderful.

\- I’m going… on my therapeutic classes. – he replies confusedly. I note that Harry is wearing a tracksuit. His hair is pinned back, apparently to keep out of his eyes during training.

\- Then you will definitely need vitamins, I stole it for you. – I point to the fruit, which the guy twirls in his hand. – Do you like apples?

\- Not really. – Harry admits. – Less than tangerines. But… hey, no it’s mine! – and he protests when I’m with a slightly offended expression on my face trying not seriously to snatch the apple back. And he bites it, demonstration undisputed possession.

\- Do you want me to take you to the therapeutic class?

\- If it’s not too much trouble. – he says modestly, adjusting his short funny ponytail.

I gently push the wheelchair forward.

\- How are your classes going? – I’m asking in between the creaking of wheels.

\- Well… I’m trying to walk. – Harry says his voice not bitter at all as if he’d already accepted it as if that was normal for him. – Or it’s a therapeutic massage.

Not that Harry said it distant so that our conversation is exhausted. That’s because of me. I don’t know what else to say. I baffled by my own question. So we drive to the right office in silence. We say good-bye at the door as I hand Harry over to his doctor.

Harry returns the book to me after a couple of days and I bring him the apple again. The next time I barge into his room I’m asking if I can come in. And I get simple permission from him. Only his curtains are still closed.

I download the next book for Harry from the internet and print it out in the registration office, having heard from Carol about such a possibility. That’s illegal, of course. That’s what Harry’s doctor, a short, plump man, catchers me trying to arrange the sheets in the right order.

I’m honored with a jocular reprimand and also suddenly become an object of interest. Because I’ve walked Harry to class three times in the last week.

\- I don’t want to describe him as wild no Harry is a very charming boy. - the man explains. – But lonely.

\- What’s good about being alone? – I’m interested, although this question is more than rhetorical.

\- Unlike savagery, loneliness is more likely due to circumstances. – he says and then scans the pile of paper in my hands, which I have successfully collected. – May I ask why you have so much waste paper?

\- It’s a book for Harry.

The man pauses.

\- There’s something about you. – he says.

I raise my eyebrows slightly.

\- Something?

\- I think it’s better to ask Harry the answer, isn’t it? And now I will ask. – hand men, a bit in impatient gesture points to the door. And I step away.

There are no more than ten volunteers like me in the boarding house and I haven’t managed to meet all of them yet. Because of the most part, we are dispersed on different assignments. Except that yesterday, along with other guys and girls, I was sent to the department with medical cards for partial transfer of information from old medical cards from paper to the database. Perhaps, if I had some special medical education, I would be more suitable for carrying out any orders of doctors, assisting them at the appointment, directly taking part in helping patients, improving their well-being. But I hadn’t. So I’m helping as much as I can. As I can. I do what they ask. The main thing is I see Harry a few times a day. And for this, I’m ready to deal with the old dusty cards for a few more days.

Harry’s eyes light up as I hand him the sheets of paper. And he thanks me for such a gift. He had never read “Gone Girl” before. And I suggest he watch the adaptation if the opportunity arises because the firm is more than two hours and our meeting lasts about half an hour.

The next weekend I manage to get into town, so I bring Harry tangerines. Now he has them with stock, depending on the speed of their eating. And Harry generously shares it with me.

Harry is exactly what I always imagined he would be. Just as charming and a little shy, but very open at the same time. He knows how to enjoy communicating with you and can give you pleasure in return. He is unobtrusive but very attentive to others. If photos and every word we left on the World Wide Web can somehow describe a person, the emotional portrait of Harry in my head coincided with the real one. And I can hardly tell you how beautiful that is.

Harry’s classes include exercise, treatment, and communication with a psychotherapist. I’m taking Harry to some of his classes. When they don’t add up to my responsibilities. On one of these days his doctor is interested in:

\- Louis, do you have any free time?

I nod back, pausing in the doorway.

\- My assistant caught a bad cold, so could I use your presence?

\- Mine? I don’t think I’d make a good assistant. – I say, catching Harry’s changing gaze.

\- I think Harry will be much more comfortable with you than with someone unfamiliar. – the man says and turns to Harry, expecting the confirmation of his words.

But Harry gives only a plaintive:

\- Can we reschedule this for another time?

He’s embarrassed and confused. And I realize that my presence in this room isn’t particularly welcome. But I never asked Harry exactly how his exercise was going and what the results were. And right now, I can find out without any questions scaring him away. Moreover, it’s undesirable to transfer classes to achieve your goal to stand on your feet this idea is confirmed aloud by the doctor.

Harry lifts himself from the chair with his hands and the doctor asks for help to move him to the couch. His milky cheeks redden as I catch Harry, steadying him. His legs tremble but slowly shift over and over until he is finally at the edge to sit up. And it’s not only Harry’s legs are shaking, but fingers that he twists, too.

Harry’s doctor gently kneads the boy’s every joint: first scroll the feet of both legs. Then he begins to slowly bend one of his knees, at first without requiring any effort from Harry, pushing the leg back and forth and then persuading Harry to do it on his own.

Harry’s face looks more than miserable and tortured, especially after several failed attempts in a row, some of which are accompanied by muffled desperate swearing. I’m asked to hold Harry down, not letting him get up, so I put my hands on his shoulders.

\- It’s okay. – I promise, and for some reason, his eyes hate me the first second they look at me. They want to burn me.

His knee jerks back and forth unruly and concentration, both physical and moral, is given to him by unknown labor. But he shifts his knee again and again. And he’s amazing. My thumbs slowly make tiny circles on his shoulders. And my gaze devours every movement of his body. And I seem to be smiling. I know it when the corners of my lips tingle. I understand, but I can’t stop. Because Harry is incredibly awesome.

He catches my glance between exercises. He hangs there for a moment, looking at my face and then his eyes slowly melt away. And the moral tension slowly releases his relaxing shoulders, retreating. It remains only physical tension, which is trying to summon his muscle tone.

\- You’re doing great. – I say and those aren’t words of comfort. Because I really feel smitten by his inner desire to make himself move again and again.

\- Even better this time. – the doctor tells him as if confirming what I’ve said. – Soon you’ll be able to do it all by yourself.

And Harry laugh on the exhale, sensing the easiest fatigue.

When the exercises are over, he sits down again and I help him down and move him closer to the chair. Further, there’re exercises on walking. I help Harry up again, as he pulls up to the training track and clings to the handrails.

\- Don’t overdo it. – the man says. Harry slowly drags himself from one end to the other, leaning heavily on his hands, while the doctor watches us from the side and keeps telling Harry to take his time, while Harry’s legs move with an uneven step over and over again, and I follow him, securing his swaying body.

Until he stumbles, one foot on the other and falls forward, shrieking funny and hoarse, hanging by his arms, and clutching the handrails of the training track tighter. I caught Harry by the waist.

\- Hold on, ballerina. – I say, helping Harry hold on.

\- What did you say?

\- I said you’re a ballerina. – I say, Harry’s eyes twinkling with interest. – But not very accomplished. – I grin, thinking for a second that maybe I should watch my tongue a little, but for a second. Harry’s eyes aren’t mad at me. On the contrary, they smile gently.

\- Get some rest, Harry. – the man says and I pull the chair closer so Harry can fall into it.

***

I get an invitation to join Harry’s training session next time if I have nothing else to do from the doctor and categorical “no” from Harry, which is instantly followed by a compliant “yes”, but only after he has achieved something even bigger. I feel an absolute sense of comfort on his part. I don’t know what it’s about maybe it’s intuitive because we’re soulmates. And even without knowing it, Harry feels normal around me, the way he should. Whether he feels the same way with others is another matter. And what can there be in me that brings us together so strongly and naturally, except for the natural purpose of each other from above?

I’ve been thinking about it for days. One of the following nights, we do find time to watch a movie together in Harry’s room, on the laptop I bring with me. The windows in his room are curtained even in the evening, and I guess it’s probably the reflective property of the glass that’s the problem. But I have nothing against, afraid to disturb his peace of mind, allowing him to feel as comfortable as possible, I adapt to him. I’m grateful to him even for such a simple gesture as being a guest in his room.

We’re watching the first film of “The Lord of the Rings”. And I start to yawn somewhere in the middle, and it’s not because the movie is boring, it’s just that I’ve had a long day, and sitting next to Harry is very calm. He notices and shoves me in the side.

\- Am I boring you?

\- Umm, it’s probably, I’m boring you, yawning all the time? – I gently stretch my neck and smile at Harry sitting next to me.

\- You don’t bore me, I like to watch a movie with you. There used to be no one to watch them with.

\- Why didn’t you just make friends? After all, you’ve made friends with me.

\- You are different. – Harry says, turning his head to me, studying my face. And I reach my hand forward to poke at the space bar on the keyboard, putting the video on pause.

\- Why?

Harry bites his lower lip, preventing it from sticking out. His fingers fumble with his hair, pulling it back to expose his broad forehead.

\- I don’t know how to explain it. – he shrugs. And I’m silent, allowing him to continue: You don’t look at me like the others. – his eyes are so unusually large, his gaze so direct and open. – _You’re just looking at me._

My gaze slowly circles his face, lingering on each expressive and, on the contrary, curved line. And for the first time because of this immense joy at the simple fact the Harry exists, my heart beats and stops in its proper rhythm.

_I’m just looking at you?_

_Because I don’t feel sorry for you? And I don’t grimace at the sinuous scars?_

_I’ve been dead in the shower for years. With you. And that you are alive and conscious and sane, someone’s mercy is upon me. _

Harry isn’t in a coma and his body isn’t paralyzed, leaving him completely helpless from top to toe. He can’t walk, but he doesn’t have to. Harry doesn’t have to walk because I have legs and hands to take him wherever he wants.

_I don’t feel sorry for you because you might be just dead. But you are alive, and I’m truly happy about it. What can I regret right now?_

\- How else can I look at you? – I shrug, and Harry looks down at the screen. But the corner of his mouth is slightly upturned.

And I slap the button again, and we continuing to watch the movie.


	4. Chapter 4

In all the time Harry had been in America for treatment, he had never been to Los Angeles, except the day he had flown in from Great Britain. The problem, of course, is still his discomfort in public. So when I suggest him to go to town on his day off, he refuses right away. But I don’t give up trying to persuade him, and even go to the dishonest collusion with his doctors, a psychotherapist and a simple mortal nurse, who three times a week injected him with vitamins. We all think Harry could use a change of scenery for a day. But his answer doesn’t change. Instead, he plaintively appeals to me:

\- Please, I don’t want that…

\- You’d like it. – I say persuasively, but I already feel like I’ll have to back off pretty soon.

\- People will be looking at me, and I’ll be thinking about is how to disappear. – Harry replies evenly, but I can see from his expression that this confession, no matter how many times he says it, is not easy for him every time.

We’re sitting in his room. I’ve been here often enough in the last month.

\- If you looked in the mirror, you’d know it wasn’t so bad. – I say in the last attempt. Harry purses his lips. His fingers tucked an unruly strand of hair back behind his ear. Then the pads slip over the uneven scar. And he lets out a stifled breath, trying not to sound sad, but he still does.

\- I don’t need, I already know what it is. I feel it every day. By my fingertips.

Harry considers himself to be disfigured and ugly. I have no idea if it’s possible to explain to him that he's not. And, even if he is, so no one has died from this. Life isn’t over. Although for him more than could over. I feel the thin blade gently and carefully weave a painful pattern across my lungs. Harry’s regret tastes the same as if he regretted being alive at all. And that’s a slap in the face I’m not ready for.

All I say in response it:

\- Sorry.

\- Don’t apologize. – Harry says, a polite smile touching his lips that I sometimes think it is just for me. – I wish I could go somewhere, but not now.

Of course, against the wishes of Harry not pass. And I can’t force him out. So we just turn on the next “How I Met Your Mother” series.

It’s only when I fold up my laptop before saying goodbye Harry asks, himself returning to a sore subject for him.

\- What do you think? This is very awful? – he brushes his hair back from his face and looks at me with his perfect, magical eyes.

\- Your scar? – I ask cautiously, returning my gaze to the lines on the more uneven skin. And I swallow because in this situation it is very difficult not to succumb to the temptation and not to lie, trying to smooth out your answer. I know Harry wants me to be honest, not to show mercy, which in this case would be worse than rude mockery. I forbid myself to lie. – I think you should stop being ashamed of it, Harry?

\- What?

\- It’s not your fault that it happened. You survived a serious accident and continue to fight every day for your opportunities. You shouldn’t be ashamed of this: your willpower and your diligent desire to live on. It’s not fair. – My fingers catch Harry’s on top of the blanket, and he flinches but doesn’t pull his hand away, studying my face. – You should be proud of how much and hard you work on yourself, you don’t need to hide it from others.

Harry’s lips are set in a thin line so they don’t tremble, and my finger circles the back of his hand. When my foolish tongue, yielding to weakness, yet utters:

\- Your parents would be very proud of you.

I curse myself inwardly because Harry blinks rapidly, sucking air noisily into his parted lips before his eyes fill with a bright gleam that indicates a rising desire to cry.

\- How do you know? – his voice shudders. And at that moment, I think that now will have to explain myself to him, to reveal all their cards, or more sophisticated and smartly to get out, pretending to be a fool. But the question itself is rhetorical, Harry continues: - You know, my psychologist tells me the same thing. I know, but I can’t help myself…

My body is still in a state of tension. So I’m silent, replacing all the words with soft touches to the hands of curly.

\- It sounds different when you say it…

All I want is to kiss Harry right now. Because I love how slightly husky-sweet his voice sounds, with a hint of embarrassment. The way his touching lips smile. And the way his eyes light after such a sincere revelation. I really want to kiss him, my insides beg for it, in the midst of a trembling fever. But the moment slips away as I try to take control of my body and desires. Harry returns to his question, but his tone is more playful:

\- And yet? What do you think? Very bad?

I think only that it was necessary to have time to catch the moment. Along with this, I make my brain work harder to come up with an answer to the question.

\- It could have been worse, you know? – I shrug, feeling Harry’s fingers leave mine to tuck the strands of hair back behind my ear. – Sometimes scars give you a certain charm.

Harry raises a skeptical eyebrow.

\- Really? Can you give me one example?

\- Well… - I wrinkle my nose, thinking. – remember, in the first Terminator Schwarzenegger burned half of the face, but he looked very impressive and…

Thin fingers pinch my thigh.

\- That’s a bad example, give another. – Harry says. – Idiot. – a smile touches my lips as I think again, making a characteristic moo. As his pal, slaps me on the knee.

\- My imagination has exhausted itself today. – I wake up, I really must go. Harry dismisses me with a slight nod. He wishes me quiet dreams, as usual. Only at the threshold, don’t know why, but I say: - I don’t think anything about your scar. I like you anyway.

***

At the end of March, my new refuge is the central avenue and my occupation is planting flowers along the road. Harry rolls around watching me work. And his presence perfectly brightens up my pastime. At one point he stops the stroller next to me and declares:

\- Can I try?

I look up from my work at the curly-haired guy.

\- I love flowers and I have a light hand. – he explains and holds out his hand toward me, signaling that I will somehow help him carry out his plan. – And I’m bored.

I brush my hands off the ground and stand, assessing our options. However, nothing is impossible, just need to sit Harry on the asphalt next to the curb and give him a few seedlings. I pull off my sweatshirt and put it on the asphalt, the soft and moderately cool air getting under my t-shirt.

\- I help you up? – I ask, and Harry’s arms wrapping around my shoulders in response as I lean toward him and then help him down to settle on my sweatshirt. And I move the seedlings toward him.

Harry’s fingers gently pull out one of the flowers and transplanted into the prepared hole, sprinkled with earth on top. And then he pauses for a few moments and admires his work. And takes the next. Gently and carefully.

Flowers and Harry are the standards of harmony. The light, loose earth doesn’t stain his perfect, pampered fingers, it makes them real. And from this, he is even more beautiful. Their every move is so natural and effortless that I hang. I can’t take my eyes off them.

\- Something’s wrong? – Harry asks. The question hangs in the air between us, frozen, as if the bandwidth of the channel connection us cannot miss it. – Louis? What’s happen?

\- Nothing. – I say my throat so tight it’s hard to get the words out. – You’re just very beautiful.

Harry’s eyes blink in surprise and seem to widen slightly as his eyebrows rise in disbelief. While he’s thinking about what I just said. While I’m thinking about it too.

\- Are you kidding me? – the hoarseness predictably breaks. And I’m not moving, still in a trance. I watch Harry’s every move, noting his determination to rise.

\- No, I’m serious.

It’s a concentrated expression. Those parted lips. Those worried eyes, which can’t figure out how to accept my frivolous, non-coercive (or very coercive) confession. This slight confusion is indescribably charming.

I reach out, my dusty fingers brushing the soft peach skin of his flushed cheeks. They draw lines to the ear, catching curly strands of hair and tucking them behind the flushed ear, and circling its tip.

\- Very beautiful. – I say. And in tinnitus is beginning to rustle. Apparently, the blood in large amounts as decided to hit the brain to get me. Well, how else can my body save itself, when I continue to test both of us, and run my thumb along Harry’s cheekbone, straight to the chin. Glaring with my magnetism-worn gaze at his lips, which would have been the envy of any girl on the planet. Lips are naturally juicy, the color of scarlet roses.

I pull him closer, one hand on his chin, the other on his neck, my fingers tangling in his unruly curls, pushing his neck forward. His eyes are very close, right in front of mine. The next moment we both know what’s going to happen. And it seems already something irreversible. We exhale weightlessly.

My lips found Harry’s first, taste them, but not very insistently to not scare him. We don’t close our eyes in the first moments. And then Harry’s eyelids close in disbelief, and he tries to pull back, but I manage to hold him by the neck. Whispering into his mouth:

\- You’re very, very beautiful.

And curly-haired Harry Styles sighs in confusion, parting his lips. And that’s enough to make a kiss a kiss. And not a stupid touch of lips to each other. A little deeper, palpable, tender. Especially. Crumpling his lower lip, running the tip of his tongue over it.

Feeling the soft lips move in response. A little indecisive. Even more purely intuitive than meaningful. But it ends this moment with a bright flash before my eyes. Because they’re ripping. And I don’t know if Harry feels it. Can you call it natural magic between kindred souls, or is it just a personal finish for me my imagination. But a kiss with Harry is the best and most beautiful. Gives my body a state of weightlessness.

Breathing is restored on the first breath. It convulses the lungs. Confusion Harry trembles right across of me. His lips are glistening with a kiss.

\- I want to run away… - he breathes, ticking my cheek and lowering his face. The only possible escape in his case. Which I prevent by intercepting his hands and not allowing him to hide from me with his hands.

\- Yeah? And where do you want? – I ask with a joking tone. Although my confused insides aren’t joking right now.

\- I don’t know, anywhere…

\- Am I that bad at kissing?

Harry looks up at me, apparently surprised by the lightness of my tone. His eyes study my face carefully. The pupils are large and black, dilating and dilating.

\- You’re a great kisser. – Harry says. And I can’t even describe what his voice sounds like. Serious and intense? A little confused? A little hoarse and confused?

\- Harry? – the guy across from me shakes his head slightly, probably guessing from my upturned intonation that I’m going to say something important and decisive. But this reluctant protest doesn’t stop me. – I like you. Listen… Shhh!... – I put my hand to his lips before Harry Styles can say anything against it. – Just let it be, okay?

The greenish eyes stare at me, confused and shyly. The desire to escape somewhere far away is read in them more clearly then clear.

\- This isn’t a compulsion. It’ll be the same if you want it, so you don’t have to run away from me, okay?

Harry’s eyes wait a few moments before we lose contact.

\- Right now, I wouldn’t mind… - he replies, his face flushing pink and uneven spots. -… to running away. But I don’t think I can. 

\- And don’t ignore me.

\- What? I didn’t even think about it. – Harry hurriedly takes the next sprout out of the seedling box.

\- Promise?

\- I promise, and let’s get this conversation over with for today. – Harry agrees, and I can tell from his tone that it’s time to give him back his personal space. And I’m starting to set back from him. – Can’t you just tell me something else? As usual?

I don’t know if he’s asking me to pretend that nothing happened or what. But Harry himself has a hard time doing it. He’s worried. He tries to concentrate fully on the sprout, but in his excitement, he breaks the stem of one of them when he plants it in the ground.

\- Oh.. damn it.

\- Don’t worry about it. – I take from Harry’s hands a broken plant.

\- Will you help me up?

Harry asks for it, and I know that as soon as he is in his chair, he will leave, leaving me to regret that we kissed, to wonder if things can get better between us, for good or bad. But he would leave. He’ll run away, even though he promised me not to.

Only how can I refuse him when he reaches out of me in a must request, and I lift him up by the belt, helping him to his feet, holding on to me. He dusts off his hands as soon as he sits down in the chair. He quickly rubs his hands on his jeans, smearing dust on his sweaty palms.

\- Thank you for your help. – I smile, despite the swirl of emotions inside me. But I still give Harry a soft smile, because I can’t help it.

\- Oh, no, thank you for letting me help. – says Harry. – I… feel normal again at times like this. – I want to ask him not to say that. Once again. But Harry, to my surprise, leans forward. – Can I ask you to kiss me again? – his voice is on the verge of breaking from the embarrassment he’s suppressing. He tries to make his voice sound confident. But his body language betrays Harry’s emotions completely.

“What?” – hangs my mute question, which is accompanied only by a slight movement of the lips.

\- Can I ask you to kiss me again?


End file.
